


Omelette

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Samifer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer helps Sam make an omelette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omelette

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is based off of this short video: [Omelette](http://vimeo.com/65107797#at=0)
> 
>  
> 
> A late birthday present to Sam.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

It’s been hours and it’s pouring outside. Sam’s supposed to get home around six and it’s currently hitting eleven. He would search for him out but there are rules and guidelines he must follow if he wants to stay in Sam’s good graces -- something that originally made him grit his teeth and snarl, but this is a chance to repair the frayed relationship they held. Lucifer isn’t ignorant of the way Sam flinches when he draws his hand near or would wake up from a nap looking terrified at the sight of him. Thus, he abides to these “house rules.” 

He cannot leave the house when the Winchesters are on a hunt due to previous events (See: Massacres).  
If he is needed, he will be prayed to. ‘Till than, do not go out venturing out to find Sam.  
Do not touch anything in the kitchen or turn on any of the appliances without human supervision. 

Right now he’s tempted to break the first rule, working his jaw and already crawling up the walls at being cooped up. He’s rifled through Sam’s duffle bag enough times to know the exact thread count of each item and the individual weight of each item. The television annoyed him. The clock ticking on the wall made his entire being itch. He needed to get out of the motel room but he made the Winchester a promise he’d stay put. 

Time is irrelevant. Time is something humans observe and fret over, yet here Lucifer finds him too in tune with the concept. His absence drags and if he’s worried it’s only shown through his fidgeting, the usually composed angel finding him pacing before the door. He should be upset. Annoyed that he has been left unattended to, but concern for this piece of him pushes any thoughts of hostility to the side. Lucifer just wants Sam back home. 

_Click!_

Lucifer is at attention, still and expectant. The door pushes inward and there’s Sam standing in the doorway, soaked and eyes barely opened. He has his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair is glued to his forehead, looking ever more so epitome of exhaustion. 

“Welcome back,” he greets Sam, sincere and fighting off the itching need to fix Sam. Just a snap of the fingers and Sam would lose the runny nose, the soaked exterior and the unhealthy set of chills that’s making his shoulders shake. Sam mumbles something in response and drops his backpack on the floor, shuffling his way towards the bathroom. 

The fallen archangel watches Sam’s painful shuffle, pallid blue eyes unblinkingly staring at him before turning his gaze to the bag. Pulling it further into the room, he closed the door and wordlessly locked it. 

Sam’s a piece of him. Not quite the half as he considered Michael to be once upon a time, but he’s an important piece that makes him whole. Watching Sam throw himself into danger and disregard his own health makes his jaw set and his concerns rise to levels that at time makes him feel like a nagging mother. He wants Sam to be safe and happy, which both wants clashed due to Sam’s. Sam wants him put -- away from innocent bystanders who end up with their throats torn and eyes hollowed out by cold fire -- which meant the inability to keep a thorough eye on Sam. If it makes him happy, however, and eventually lead to Sam no longer flinching at the mere sight of him reaching out.... 

Lucifer heaves out a sigh. 

He’d take it. He’d take the sitting and waiting as he felt his own vessel’s insides rot and decompose. He waited before for Sam to let him in, he can do it again for the young Winchester. 

The Winchester made a stop at the bathroom, stripping his wet clothes off, shooting the archangel a firm look when he catches him staring. Lucifer sidles off to feign interest at the wallpaper, remaining put until Sam’s in dry clothes and pulling a bowl out from the cupboards in the kitchen. The blond moves silently into the little kitchen, an area where he has been banned on more than one occasion due to his “helpfulness” leading to a near gas explosion. The archangel subjected himself to watching cooking shows when Sam’s away or when he’s not visiting Sam. He wants to prove he’s capable of being of great use, even if it’s for small matters like a meal. 

Sam leans down to bring out a small carton of eggs, laying it down on the counter. His fingers are sloppy and slow, breaking the eggs and leaving the shells in the bowl. Lucifer shoots a questioning look at Sam that goes unseen, the brunette shuffling in search of a pan. 

The blond works his jaw before clicking his tongue. He never was one for rules anyways. Moving to the counter, cold fingers pick at the shells. Abandoning them on the counter, he snaps up an egg beater, whisking away at the yellow substance. Sam shifts at the sound, but the pan’s clattering diverts him long enough for the archangel to innocently move away from the bowl. 

Sam returns to the bowl, pouring the contents into the pan and setting it on the stove. Turning the burner on high, the archangel nearly opens his mouth to protest but Sam is too worn down to notice his visible surprise. The minute Sam’s back is turned he lowers the heat, fighting back the urge to just gently push Sam aside and insist he do this. There’s no point in starting an argument, so he remains always near and feigning disinterest in everything about him. Whenever Sam glances at him, he’s examining a pair of tongs like it’s by far the silliest of contraptions. 

The Winchester has vegetables out. Sprawled out on a cutting board. He’s staring intently at that hand that’s grabbing a knife, watching it waver. Watching the probability of Sam’s fingers becoming sliced up with the celery increasing exponentially. He could stop time and move his hand, than continue to repeat the motion till it’s all diced or be a problem. Lucifer grabs a glass from the cabinet before dropping it on the floor, Sam nearly jumping from his spot.

Lucifer smiles at Sam who is now giving a tired glare at him. 

“I’m sorry, Sam...” he apologizes and Sam puts the knife down, already making his way to him.

“Just...don’t touch anything, Lucifer,” the hunter is grumbling and Lucifer steps out of the way, watching Sam crouch down to pick up the pieces. 

“Okay,” the archangel responds, sliding up to the vegetables to grab the abandoned knife, dicing them up with respective ease. He recalls the shows. The quick movements and Paula Deen insisting on two bars of butter. Grabbing the diced veggies, he appears before the pan, dropping in the vegetables into the cooking egg mixture. 

Glancing over at Sam, still picking up the pieces, the archangel grabs the salt shaker. Sprinkling some salt before fishing for the pepper. So far it looks aesthetically pleasing and it does smell quite well. The archangel turns down to his wrist where his hand is holding the handle of the pan, boring into visible faded blue of Nick’s veins. He looks pensive, sneaking a glance at Sam who is nothing but a bent body picking at each individual shard of glass.

Reaching back for the discarded knife on the counter, he turns his gaze away from Sam’s laborious movements. It’s beginning to look nearly finished, discarding the now used knife stained a rusted red. Icy fingers drop down to touch the edge of the becoming omelette, bringing it to his mouth. Lucifer is unsure of what to compare the taste to, since he avoids such a thing like eating, but it is a rather pleasant taste. It was almost ready to serve. Shoulders pulled back, stance erect he grabbed the pan firmly and made a forward motion with the pan, watching the omelette somersault in the air. Landing perfectly back in, lips curled into a smug smile as he let it sit before turning the burner off. 

Fingers flick and he has a plate before him, sliding the omelette off the pan and onto the plate. Sam’s pushing himself onto his feet, his knees popping and Lucifer hastily abandons the plate. When Sam finally raises his head, he finds the stove off and the omelette finished. Blinking confusedly, he turns to Lucifer who seems interested in the calendar on the wall. 

The archangel listens to Sam grab the plate and move to the couch in the tiny room, moving away from the calendar to peek out at the Winchester. Sam’s becoming one with the ratty surface of the couch, a fork in hand and about to cut into it. Green and brown speckled eyes find him, the blond stilling. Sam pats the spot next to him on the couch. 

“Sit by me,” he requests and Lucifer abides, moving to sit beside the Winchester. He watches with rapt interest Sam cut into the omelette, taking the cut piece into his mouth. There’s a curious hum leaving Sam that makes Lucifer smile, blissfully unaware of Sam’s befuddled expression when he spots red oozing out of the omelette. Sam turns to Lucifer who is smiling widely at him, eyeing the omelette before returning to eyeing Sam. 

Sam’s nearly certain that’s not salsa in his omelette, not sure whether he should be mortified or give a delirious laugh. But Lucifer leans down and rests his forehead on his shoulder, nose nudging into his upper arm. The hunter sighs, moving an arm to wrap around Lucifer in gratitude nonetheless, pulling him close so he can leave a chaste kiss on the top of his head. 

“Thank you.” 

Digging back into the omelette, he takes half a bite before offering the rest of it to Lucifer. Lucifer slides closer until their legs are pressing against each other, leaning down to take the rest into his mouth. They finish it together, the TV dark and the room dim. Lucifer only moves when Sam passes out on the couch, putting the plate and fork away before he’s sliding back into his spot beside the Winchester. There he listens to Sam’s steady breathing, proud of his successful dish and this successful moment.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
